72 Hours Alone
by quoththeblackbird
Summary: "If I'm still alive when I wake up, I'll have something on the horizon to head toward." Moments of the 74th Hunger Games from Peeta's POV.


A/N: I know this topic is slightly overdone, but what can I say? I hate philosophy lecture? My pen has a mind of its own?

Anyhow, set during The Hunger Games, Peeta's POV from the tracker jackers until shortly before Katniss finds him in the streambed. Sequence of events may be a little off, but Peeta's feverish and I'm writing this at one in the morning.

I don't own the Hunger Games. Still working on that.

**72 Hours Alone**

I awake from and re-enter the venom stupor three times before the edges of my vision are no longer shining. I blink several times to be sure the world isn't about to tilt into nightmares again. Everything stays as it is, so I shove myself to my hands and knees. That goes smoothly enough, so I try for my feet.

I let out a grunt of pain as I try to put weight on my leg. The events from the last time I was conscious come rushing back. Tracker Jackers. Stings. Pain. Cato slicing my leg with his sword because I told Katniss to run.

Katniss. Did she run? Is she alive? Out of reach of the careers? I quickly turn my head in every direction I can think of, trying to survey the area around me. Besides the area of ground flattened by my unconscious body, there is nothing. I suppose I'd managed to stumble some distance away from the careers before I'd succumbed to the tracker jacker venom.

I feel adrenaline begin to rush through my veins. My body has reached the conclusion before my mind has. If I'm not dead, then the careers must still be passed out. If I want to stay not-dead, then I have to get farther away before they become not-passed out. So I choose a direction and start running.

I'm injured, and I don't have supplies. But I can run faster without anything to weigh me down. And my cut leg and numerous stings throb less when I quickly fly my feet over the ground, kicking up leaves as I go.

I'm prepared to run to the edge of the arena, or back to the Capital, or back to district 12, or to the horizon and the end of the Earth. I make up lies to keep myself going. When I make it to wherever the hell I'm headed, there will be hot chocolate and toast with butter and cinnamon. Long sheets of paper and tubes of real, expensive paint. There will be a shower with hot water and only one knob to control it.

When I get there, my mother will love me. She will hug me and praise me and apologize for all the years of yelling and beating and barely tolerating my presence.

When I get there, Katniss will be waiting. Laying on pile of soft white blankets with open arms and welcome lips. Her hair will be long and loose, her sheer white nightshirt unbuttoned to the waist.

I don't know how long I'm in my fantasy stupor, but I'm jerked back to reality when I hear the massive explosion. Though I'm nowhere near it, I trip forward and end up falling face first to the ground. My chin makes contact with something hard—a rock or a tree root—and sends reverberations through my skull. I lay still, slightly dazed, and try to figure what could have caused the blast. I come up with two possibilities. Either the gamemakers blew something up, or someone triggered the mines around the careers' food pile. I'm hoping for the latter. I imagine Cato, still delirious from the venom, staggering around and setting off his own booby trap. I laugh, then feel disgusted with myself. Yes, he's horrible and yes, I want him dead, but he's really just another kid shoved into the Games.

I grit my teeth and start to stand up, hoping that I still have enough adrenaline coursing through me to keep the pain at bay. I get up on my feet, wincing. It hurts, but I'm not incapacitated. Just nauseous. I scramble to the nearest tree and hold onto it for support as I puke up a whole lot of nothing. Mostly sick tasting bile and strings of mucous. I'm light headed and my eyes and nose are streaming, but I force myself to get moving again.

I can't go any faster than a walk, which is quickly becoming a limp. My thoughts are running in opposite directions. Selfish and selfless vie for my favor. Keep going, make it to the white blankets. Katniss will give you a blowjob. Stop, lay down, let life slip away. Katniss will win and she won't have to kill you.

For hours the ideas continue to swim until I can't tell them apart. I'm going toward death-sex-nothingness. My head is beginning to spin, I'm shivering and clammy, sweat is dripping into my eyes. In fact, small salty drops are streaming down my entire body. The gash on my leg is screaming in agony as the perspiration slides down the infected flesh.

I sink to my knees and dry heave. I hear softly rushing water and notice the stream a few yards in front of me. I crawl forward and lay on my stomach as I scoop up some of the cool liquid to cool down my face. I'm amazed at how delirious I am. If I don't quit stumbling around soon, someone is sure to come by and slit my throat.

I drag myself to my hands and knees. I want to get my feet under me, but the sight of the blood seeping from my leg keeps me from trying. I pull myself along the rocky streambed, vaguely aware that I'm leaving bloodstains behind. Shadows are falling over me. I remember this happening before. How many times since I started running? Two? Three?

I collapse on my side on a bank of sand and mud. I hear the anthem begin to play. I hadn't noticed it the last couple of days. How far gone am I? I cover my face with shaky hands in a fruitless attempt to cool my fever.

Claudius Templesmith's voice sounds. Maybe inside my head. I scoop a handful of muddy streambed onto my forehead.

"…Two tributes from the same district…"

Katniss. Me. Sex.

No. Katniss. Victor. Me. Dead.

"…Both declared victor…"

Katniss. Victor. Me. Victor?

The anthem plays again. I strain to confirm that the sound is in my ears, not just in my head, but it ends before I can come to a conclusion. I relax my tense muscles and sink deeper into the sand.

If I'm still alive when I wake up, I'll have something on the horizon to head toward.

-END-

A/N: Please R&R! Loads of thanks!


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